The Final Problem
by hauntedbyhumans
Summary: Sherlock's hand had been outstretched, his fingers only centimetres away from touching the spot which John had touched only moments ago when he heard them.


Sherlock's hand had been outstretched, his fingers only centimetres away from touching the spot which John had touched only moments ago when he heard them.

Muffled thuds.

Regular, muffled thuds.

So distorted you'd have thought that...that they were coming from the ground. From his grave.

In three strides, Sherlock was in front of his tombstone and lying flat on the turf, ear pressed to the ground.

He theorised that the thudding must be coming from his grave, though let's face it, he knew it would be anyway. The sound distortion was such he would not be able to hear the thuds with the clarity he could unless it was coming from directly below him – the only place the ground would be compressed enough for the sound to travel through and not be lost entirely. Of course the particles of earth would be compacted in other places nearby, obviously, he was in a graveyard, but not everywhere, not in the spaces in between the rows of graves where the ground was compacted enough, where the sound would be lost.

It has to be coming from his.

His palms felt slightly damp but he ignored them. A bomb? Couldn't be. If he'd wanted him dead, he could have blown him sky high already. If he wanted him to dig, so be it: he'd dig.

Sherlock thought about calling someone. There were two payphones within a mile radius not to mention the countless streams of people - but if the thuds meant what he thought they meant, getting help would only hinder. Also, he was supposed to be dead which was a huge logistical problem. Not that there weren't side paths he could use, disguises he could cover up with, but they would take time and he did not have time. Who knew how long the thuds would last for? Who knew if there was a time limit?

A shovel had been discarded beside a recently dug grave. Not a speck of fresh dirt on it though, only old stuff, and unless the gravedigger had only cleaned the dirt from today's digging (which would make no sense and would be no easy feat) this shovel hadn't dug that newly dug grave at all. It had been placed there. How convenient.

Five minutes later, he'd dug out most of his, digging in time to the thud, thud, thud.

The thuds.

There were more sounds now, not just the thuds. He could hear something else, possibly a voice or at very least something that is the same the pitch as a voice, though it went to the extremities of the alto range. Screaming possibly? A man buried alive?

He analyses the sound in his mind. He sees the two layers like moving parts of a bar chart, one darting all over the place but he doesn't care about that. It's the constant thud that bothers him.

It's _too_ constant. Too regular.

It pulses to 120bpm-

Oh.

_Oh._

It was obvious! He'd known all along really. Of course, it had to be didn't it? Had to be. There was no question he was involved, no question really. Perfect disco tempo. Of course.

Seven minutes later the coffin lays exposed and "Stayin' Alive" blares loudly throughout the graveyard.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock put the shovel down and from the right edge of the now dug up grave, he opened the coffin.

And there lay Jim Moriarty resting in peace, eyes closed, pale as hell with a stereo beside him pumping that song.

Sherlock leant down to inspect him. No pulse, cold as stone. He released his grip of the wrist just in time to see it.

See Jim Moriarty open his eyes.

See his grin.

"It was so boring wasn't it? Staying alive? Do you think this is actually any better Sherlock Holmes, bein' dead?" He let out a little laugh as he sat up in his coffin, blue eyes fixed on Sherlock. "Must be a relief finally getting some space away from that clingy human pet. My goodness, he followed you everywhere! Must have taken an almighty complex plan to not have him follow you up to the roof."

" You know he's not a-"

"Oh, but he_ is_. Surely you must have seen how he stayed by his dead master's side? Didn't you hear his howls throughout the night, the constant howling, when he thought everyone had gone, that there was not a living soul near when one lay right beside him? How he's still so _loyal _to you. It's adorable."

" He'll get over it soon enough. The ordinary always do."

"You sound so sure Sherlock, but I don't think you are." He grinned. "No no no no no, I really don't think you are. In fact, I don't think you're quite over your little puppy dog yet. People get awfully found of your pets, don't they, as consulting detectives get awfully fond of their army doctors. Sometimes a little bit _too _fond." Moriarty extended his arm towards Sherlock, fingers wriggling. "Going to help me out of here? I promise, I don't bite."

"I'm not helping the spider escape the glass."

" So you're going to squash him." His grin widened. "Is that your big plan? You're going to kill me? "he laughed, before his expression became stern and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Is that what you're going to do Sherlock? Give me a good smack with that shovel." He stood up in his grave, miming hitting the space behind him with shovel. "Ptttttuuu thwack. Bye bye Jim Moriarty. Bye bye problems."Then, he lifted himself out of the grave, on his feet before Sherlock could comment.

"Of course not. Couldn't bring myself to destroy a species so rare. I bet the dead body is a whole lot more deadly than the alive one. Even if the spider died, the web would still remain. Killing the spider doesn't destroy the web, Jim."

"Our little Sherlock's got his metaphor on! Feeling so, so _deep _after watching your own funeral today?" He pulled a sad face, more mocking than realistic. "How many people turned up again?"

Sherlock remained silent.

"Oh come on now, Sherlock. It's not like you stay so quiet."

"Four."

"Why not make it five? I was there. You know though, and this is just between friends mind, I felt a bit stupid there at your funeral. You know why detective boy?"

"Of course I know why."

Moriarty continued regardless. "I forgot her. Dear Molly Hooper and her love for all things kitten (he spits out the word). You know her apartment is full of kitten. KITTEN! Don't you find it ironic Sherlock, that she thinks herself the owner when she's the one who's owned?"

"How much do you know?"

"That she confirmed the fake was you. That she provided the fake in the first place. That someone's going to freak out if their daddy wanted an open coffin...I know everything Sherlock.

"How your loyal minions broke your fall with that rubbish bin, how they concealed you from your precious John, knocking him over. How you'd taken that drug to slow your heartbeat, how it made your eyes water –though, let's face it, there were some real tears in there you big baby."

"And I know all about you Jim," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Oh really? Amaze me, Sherlock Holmes,"

"You concealed the patch of fake blood behind your head, grabbed your fake gun and you were set. I know a real gun when I see one, Moriarty, you know that. When you play games with me, please try to play them well. But once you hit the ground, the concealed blood bag broke and it looked convincing, I'll give you that. Just not convincing enough."

"But why didn't you make me call them off though, Sherlock? Dear sweet Sh-"

"Because they would shoot anyway. Your order couldn't be altered: you told them to shoot regardless of what you said later. The web still remained. That was never a possibility; they had to see me jump. "

"Well thanks for coming anyway Sherlock. To my funeral. Nice of you to leave flowers."

"And did you read the note?"

Moriarty nodded. "I did, I did. But enough of that. Why don't we take a look at _your_ flowers? You'd _die _to see what they all brought you, wouldn't you? Your pets." He walked over to the place where they lie discarded, thrown away in Sherlock's attempt to dig. "And treated so carefully too. Now, let's see...some pansies here, from Mrs Hudson undoubtedly, not expensive but who can blame her - the ones you gave to her on her birthday never were. Didn't Greg do wonders, I mean Lestrade - you don't call him Greg do you? All of about £3 there. At least he turned up though." He pulled a sad face. "Big Brother didn't."

"Hardly a surprise."

"Still hurts a little bit though, doesn't it? That the ice man didn't melt at all? Come Sherlock, you can open up to me." He stretched out his arms as if welcoming a hug. "I'm here for you, even if no one else is. I'll help you find a vase for these flowers too. We wouldn't want them to _wilt_."

Then Moriarty kicked the flowers, watching as the petals flew everywhere.

" Oops. I TRIPPED! PARDON ME! MY MISTAKE! I'M DREADFULLY SORRY SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

Sherlock scoffed. " Don't be. It's fun to watch the great Moriarty throw a hissy fit over flowers?" He laughed. "You could have had all the bouquets in the world at your funeral if you'd have wanted, so what's the problem? The flowers there are hardly rich selection."

Moriarty didn't say anything for a moment, but after a few seconds, in a small voice, he continued. "Because none of mine would be from friends. You know I don't have any Sherlock. It was hard to miss you in the pews, Sherlock, because YOU WERE THE ONLY ONE THERE! If I'd bought them for myself Sherlock, they wouldn't have been the same." A strange look came upon his face, almost as if enlightenment has hit him there beside the graveside. "You know, maybe power _isn't_ everything. Maybe what you've got with John...maybe that's what coun-"

Then he burst out laughing.

" Gosh, I'm sorry Sherlock, I simply couldn't keep that one up." He paused "So you aren't you going to ask me then? About whether your friends will be stayin' aaaaaaa-aaaa-aaaaa-aaaaaa-aaaalive?" he sang, in perfect tiem to the music.

" You have no use for them, why would you care?"

" Have no use for them? While you're alive Mr Holmes, there will always be use for them, there's no escaping that now."

" I'm yesterday's news. I'm not a problem. As far as anyone's concerned, I'm dead."

" But you're not."

" An excellent deduction."

" Oh, I don't mean you, stupid. The idea of you: that's_ my_ final problem. _The _final problem. Did you know you've been trending on twitter, Mr Holmes? Hashtag I believe in Sherlock Holmes? Graffiti everywhere proclaiming their love for you, your pets. I didn't anticipate this. I thought the game would be over. Turns out, it's only just begun."

" It will fade-"

" Everything will fade one day Sherlock. But for now, you're alive in their minds and to be honest, that's more dangerous than your actual state of alive. To let them live, Sherlock, you must turn them against you. The public must stop believing. Kitten-loving Molly must. Mrs Hudson must, Lestrade must and, most importantly of all, John must. Even the resolve of the loyalist pets can be broken Sherlock. And if not, they'll just have to be put down, won't they? You have two weeks."

And then Moriarty walked away.

" Wait."

He turned towards Sherlock, an expectant look on his face." Yeeeeeeeees?"

" Why?"

He laughed. "For a slightly more than mediocre man, Mr. Holmes, you just don't get it, do you?" Moriarty shook his head. "Really, you can't guess? Can't you see that you're a spider in a web just like me, with thousands of little flies all for the picking."

" I'm not-"

" -like me? Of course you're not like me Sherlock. You're not as good, my little angel. You're not nearly as good.


End file.
